


The Chills That You Spill

by meansgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, First Meetings, First Time Blow Jobs, Gay Awakening, Gay Bar, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Realization, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26899930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meansgirl/pseuds/meansgirl
Summary: “But—“ Greg couldn’t seem to make himself pull his wrist out of that long-fingered grasp. “But wait, what’s your— Um. What’s your name?”For this he got a slightly mocking smile. “Does it matter?”“Well, yeah?”“Fine. It’s Mycroft. You?”“Greg.”“Fantastic,” Mycroft drawled. “Now we’re friends. Come on.”
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 29
Kudos: 251





	The Chills That You Spill

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Brief mention of a creepy dude slipping drugs into drinks. He is unsuccessful.

Greg found himself in the bar - club - by accident. 

That’s what he told himself as he looked around, licking nervously at his lips, decided _What the hell,_ and stayed. It’s what he told himself as he ordered a drink and clocked the man across the way cruising him over the rim of his own glass. It’s what Greg decided he would say, in the very unlikely event that someone he knew recognized him there. 

It was a lot of work to believe it, and it took a lot of his attention, and so he didn’t notice the man from across the way getting up from his seat at the bar. He didn’t notice the man until he was right up against Greg’s shoulder, leaning against the wall Greg had chosen to prop up while he worked through all the things he could say to explain away his presence there. 

“Hey,” the man said, false-casual. “I’ve never seen you here.”

Greg turned his head, just enough to see his face, then faced forward again, sure that he was physically shaking. He felt very cold and very hot all at once when he said, “Yeah, I’m not from around here.”

“London, you mean?”

“Yeah, sure,” Greg spit out, though of course he was born and raised there, then gulped at his drink. 

“Hmmm.” The man’s hand was on Greg’s hip. “Wanna go upstairs and dance?”

Greg forced himself to turn and look at him again. 

The man was short-ish, and dark-haired. Not… bad looking. Greg didn’t really know what exactly made a bloke attractive. _He didn't._ Why would he? But this one was fine as blokes went. Greg thought. 

“Er… I don’t know—“

“I could buy you another,” the man said. “What’s your name, handsome?”

“Uh—“ Greg fumbled, and came up with the name he’d used last year when he worked vice on a drugs case. “Gavin.”

“Well,” the man murmured, plucking Greg’s empty glass from his hand. _“Gav._ I’ll be right back.” 

Greg didn’t know what to say or do now, so he shoved his hands into his pockets and kept leaning against the wall, half of him wishing he could sink through it while the other half thrilled at the very concept of a bloke buying him a drink. Of all the mad, completely weird, things. 

He didn’t last long there against the wall. Everything seemed fine - he was going nicely blank in the head, actually, turning off his thoughts without even the help of the alcohol that should have been pressed into his hand any minute - until a hand closed around his wrist. Greg startled, looking to his left and the source of the sudden, cool grip. A pair of keen blue eyes blinked back at him. 

“Don’t take that drink, officer,” said the owner of the eyes. “You will regret it, if you do.”

Greg blinked back and tried to pull his wrist away. “What?”

“Henry is buying you a drink, isn’t he? Don’t take it. I realize you aren’t a frequenter of this establishment, but I am, and I know for a fact that gin won’t be all that’s in that glass. Come with me.”

Greg tried to seek out the man who offered him a drink - Henry, apparently - but couldn't see him in among the knot of bodies crowded round the bar. “What do you mean, gin’s not the only—“

“GHB, officer,” said this new man, tall and fair with gingery hair, as he succeeded in tugging Greg away from the wall. “Ever heard of it?”

Greg swallowed against a rush of horror. “What, really?”

“Mmm.”

“Wait—“ Greg crowded up close to the tall redhead so he could be heard. “How the hell did you know I’m a cop?”

“The way you stood against that wall,” the man said. “Come dance with me.”

Greg glanced over his shoulder even as he followed. He still couldn’t see the first bloke and the promised drink. 

“There is another bar upstairs by the dance floor. You can get one there.”

“But—“ Greg couldn’t seem to make himself pull his wrist out of that long-fingered grasp. “But wait, what’s your— Um. What’s your name?”

For this he got a slightly mocking smile. “Does it matter?”

“Well, yeah?”

“Fine. It’s Mycroft. You?”

“Greg.”

“Fantastic,” Mycroft drawled. “Now we’re friends. Come _on.”_

~*~

“I should go find that other bloke,” Greg said as Mycroft pressed a drink into his hand. He’d made a show out of dragging Greg up to the bar to watch it being poured. “I can’t just let him go if he’s drugging people.”

They have to shout to be heard; the bar on the first floor had been loud, but the one up here is even louder, located at the end of an unlit little hall with the dance floor and its pounding speakers on the other end. 

“Well, if I know his M.O. by now, and I do, Henry will soon be trolling for innocent, wayward lambs on the dance floor. You can intimidate him into handing it over, perhaps. It’s not as if you can arrest him. You don’t have your warrant card, and what’s more, you would sooner die than let anyone at work know you were here tonight.”

Greg took a gulp of his drink. “How the hell would you know that?”

“I am observant.” Mycroft tipped his own plastic cup and drained it. 

“Jesus!” Greg laughed, unable to help himself. “In a hurry?”

“I dislike holding a drink on the dance floor.” Mycroft waved a hand at him. “Hurry up and finish yours.”

Greg sighed and did it, knowing he would regret it. Clear liquor went straight to his head and always had. “Fine,” he said. “But really, I think I ought to find this Henry and deal with him, and then I think I’ll just— go home.” 

Mycroft ignored this and caught Greg’s hand, plucking the cup of ice out of the other and depositing it on the bar. “Whatever you say, officer.”

“If you’re gonna call me that,” Greg said, feeling a little snippy and very off-balance, “at least use the correct term.”

“Which is?”

“Detective Sergeant. Or Sergeant. Greg would be fine, though.”

“Hmmm.” Mycroft’s fingers tightened around Greg’s. “Very well, then.” 

Greg let himself be dragged up the two steps out of the bar area and then down the hallway, doors to the loos and entangled people in the dark on either side of them. Greg kept his eyes forward; he didn’t need to _look._

Exiting the hall into the dance floor was a shock. It was somehow far louder than Greg had thought it could be, and the lights were… disorienting. And revealing. There were three men in a clutch just there on the edge, and—

Greg forced his eyes to the left, to Mycroft, who watched him with a sardonic little smirk that was just— completely— 

Annoying. Weird. Nasty. Stuck up. 

_Hot._

“Listen.” Greg tried to step away, only to realize he was still holding hands with this strange man. “Look, I’m not—“

“No, of course you aren’t.” Mycroft tugged his hand. “Dance with me anyway.”

Greg could only gape and stumble along, hauled into the crush of bodies. He shook his head, trying to find words and the coordination to force them out of his mouth. Instead, he found himself pulled in, his hand finally let go in favor of his belt loops. 

“I don’t really dance,” Greg said, instead of any of the dozens of other, more forceful protests he needed to say. 

“Well,” Mycroft guided Greg’s hands to his own hips. “Luckily this isn’t exactly the tango.” His hands swept up Greg’s arms, fingers tucking under the sleeves of his t-shirt. “Just—“ He stepped in even closer, pressing their hips together. “Sway.”

Greg could feel that his eyes were very wide. _Sway._

“Poor thing,” Mycroft laughed. “Close your eyes, Sergeant.”

Greg’s breath caught, and he did. 

“Now, sway.” 

Greg didn’t actually need to do much of anything. His body moved with the rocking of Mycroft’s hips. Mycroft’s hands gripped his elbows, then the round caps of his shoulders, and then held him with cool palms at the top of his back, thumbs brushing the bare skin of his neck. Greg— Greg shuddered into every touch. 

“You’re doing very well.” His voice was much closer, less shouty, lips very close to Greg’s cheek. “You’re so… _solid.”_ Mycroft’s hands squeezed. “I like that.”

Greg opened his eyes, feeling slow and a little unreal. He couldn’t make eye contact with Mycroft anymore. Not from so close up. “Um.” 

“Why did you come here tonight, Greg?”

“An accident.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve never…”

“I know.” Mycroft grinned, wicked and undeniably mean. “It’s not so different.”

“Different?”

“From touching a woman, of course.”

And then Mycroft leaned in and kissed him. 

Greg gasped, hands tightening on Mycroft’s hips. He pulled him closer - _what?_ \- and let his arms wind around his waist, let his mouth fall open. 

_Oh, god._

Mycroft’s thumbs swept up to press against the hinges of Greg’s jaw and urged him to open more, and then he slipped Greg just a little tongue before pulling back to suck his lower lip hard enough to leave it tingling. 

Greg found himself blinking into amused, knowing blue eyes, hard in his jeans and completely gobsmacked. 

“Henry is behind you,” Mycroft says. 

“What?”

“Behind you.” Mycroft turned him. “Go get him, Sergeant.”

~*~

Greg lost track of Mycroft while he made a bit of a meal out of looming over Henry and growling nonsense about kicking his arse up and down the street, but the moment the little vial of clear liquid was in Greg’s hand, his other was caught and tugged. 

“Well done, Detective.” Mycroft smirked at him. “Come on.”

They wound their way through the crowd, and Greg’s awareness seemed to narrow, the electronic throb of the music fading out, the smell of liquor and cologne and sweat barely registering anymore. Greg kept his eyes fixed on the neat line of Mycroft’s hair over his crisp collar, kept his senses focused on the dry coolness of the palm closed over his own, all the way out and down and onto the street. 

“Sewer grate over there,” Mycroft said. “Just drop it.”

“I’m sending a unit over here to keep an eye out and nab him when he tries that again,” Greg muttered, mostly to himself, while he tossed the vial. “Christ, what a creep.”

“Yes,” Mycroft drawled, and Greg heard the click of a lighter. 

When he turned, Mycroft handed him a lit cigarette, damp from his own lips, and then lifted a second to light for himself. 

“Thanks,” Greg said. “For the save, as well.”

“Not for the kiss?” Mycroft smiled around his cigarette, took a drag, and then blew it out in an unfairly smooth, sexy sort of sequence of motions. He crossed one arm over his body, the other elbow resting on it to hold up the cigarette for him to study while Greg stood there staring at him like a gormless idiot. 

“Well,” Greg said, at a loss. “Sure, yeah. Thanks for that, too.” 

“You should come back to mine,” Mycroft said, not bothering to look away from the burning end of his cigarette. “Hmm? Say yes.”

“I don’t…” Greg shook his head. “That’s not—” 

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft sighed. “Listen, this is all very tiresome. I’ve got jet lag like you would not _believe,_ and I’ve been in a country that would see me hung for so much as _thinking_ about sucking cock for three months. I came out tonight with a goal in mind, you see, and so did you. Let us skip the pleasantries and the insistences of heterosexuality, shall we? Come back to mine, trade orgasms, go home, resume your life in whatever closet you find most comfortable. You seem the type to lean hard toward the traditional. Girlfriend becomes fiancé becomes wife, et cetera, et cetera. Uninteresting, and irrelevant to me at the moment. Shall we?” 

Greg hadn’t taken so much as a puff yet, but that little speech reminded him that oh, right, he had something to occupy himself with while he mulled all that over. He smoked and contemplated the pavement under his feet until two very nice leather brogues moved into view. Greg looked up and let Mycroft’s hands slip around his waist. 

“Why would you pass up the chance?” Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. “You want this. You want to know what it’s like. Don’t you?”

Greg swallowed. “I…” He tossed the cigarette down the grate, sending it to join creepy Henry’s creepy drugs. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat against the rasp in his voice. “Yeah, I do.”

“Then come home with me.”

~*~

“God,” Mycroft muttered against Greg’s jaw. “You really are just…” His hands squeezed over Greg’s chest through his t-shirt. “Mmph.”

“I… um. Thank you?” Greg tried to hold still, pressing himself back into the closed door of Mycroft’s very fancy, but very sparse flat. “Did you, er… just move in or something?”

“I’m rarely at home,” Mycroft muttered. “Kiss me.” 

Greg tried not to twitch. _God._ He was bossy, and his breath was hot against Greg’s throat and jaw. “Yeah,” Greg heard himself say, and then without thinking about it at all, he took hold of Mycroft’s face, registering his freckles and licked-wet lips in the split second before their mouths met, hot and shuddering. 

Stubble. Mycroft had a little stubble, and Greg could feel it scraping against his own, against his lips. _Oh, god._ And when he pressed Greg impossibly harder into the door, his chest was flat and unyielding, his hips narrow and straight, not a curve to him. His hands, sneaking up under the hem of Greg’s shirt, were long-fingered and smooth, but big. Bigger than Greg’s hands. 

Mycroft traced his abs, his ribs, and then tweaked at his nipples. Greg gasped into the kiss, breaking it for a moment and leaving his mouth open for Mycroft’s tongue, dipping between his lips and teeth and stroking against Greg’s, invasive and really, really sexy. He pinched Greg’s left nipple as his thigh shoved between Greg’s to give him something to shove against. 

Greg hadn’t even noticed how his own hips were moving, hitching with every breath. The little zing of pain at the pinch of Mycroft’s fingers traveled down Greg’s spine, and suddenly he wasn’t so much shoving as rolling into the hard line of Mycroft’s leg. 

“You like that,” Mycroft informed him, mouth dragging hot over Greg’s cheek to his ear. “Hm?”

“Yeah,” Greg gasped. “Yeah, I like it, I like it. Fuck, I like it.”

“It’s alright,” Mycroft said, soft and gentle, like Greg needed comforting. Reassuring. “It’s alright that you like it.”

Greg couldn’t say anything to that, a strange sort of panic threatening to rise up in his throat if he spoke. 

“Do you want me to suck you?” Mycroft nipped at his ear, then the sensitive bit of skin just below it. “I’d love to do that for you, Greg.”

“Oh, _fuck.”_ Greg let his head thunk back against the door. “Yeah. Yes. Please.”

“Lovely,” Mycroft breathed, and then he was making very quick work of Greg’s belt and flies, mouth suctioned to the join of Greg’s neck and shoulder. 

All Greg could do was stand there and take it, shivering and swallowing the desperate whine he couldn’t believe his body wanted him to make. 

Mycroft dropped to his knees right there on the floor. “Oh, you are rather perfect, aren’t you?” His hand rubbed, no hesitation, roughly over the shape of Greg’s erection through his underwear. “I can already tell this is the thickest cock I’ve ever—” 

“Oh my _god.”_ Greg grit his teeth. “Stop talking, or I’m gonna—”

Mycroft laughed, a little high-pitched. “Poor baby,” he said, then yanked down Greg’s pants. “Oh, I was right,” he said, and then sucked Greg’s prick down in one go. 

Greg saw stars. “Jesus— Jesus, that’s—” 

“Mmm.”

The vibration of that little satisfied hum was - it was good. God, it was all so good. Greg had blowjobs before, obviously, but never - _never -_ one that felt like that. And somehow he had the brain cells left to realize that Mycroft wasn’t doing anything all that different from what girls - women - had done, it was just…

God, Greg didn't know. He remembered nasty little comments, insincere jokes by his mates from school, from his football team. _A mouth’s a mouth._ That’s… it’s callous, and Greg could now say it was also really, really false. Greg had never been more certain about something being just... Very, very wrong. 

It wasn't just that there were lips on him, a tongue sweeping hot and wicked all over him. It was the short hair Greg’s hands wanted badly to touch. The stubble rasping against him here in there, tiny rough brushes of a chin against his balls. The bigger hands...

Mycroft’s hands were rough on him, one coming up to tug mercilessly at Greg’s tightening balls, the other following his mouth with a hard twist on the upstroke. Greg gave up on digging his fingers hard into his own thighs, and let them slip into the soft reddish hair he couldn’t stop staring at. 

“You can pull it,” Mycroft muttered, popping off of Greg’s dick just long enough to say it. 

His voice was male. The groan in his chest when Greg did pull his hair was male. 

Greg shuddered and shook, trying hard not to... not to _love_ that. But he did. He loved that.

Greg opened his mouth to warn him, but could only gasp and stutter. Mycroft’s teasing fingers slipped just behind his sac, rubbing suggestively, and he stopped sucking. He jerked Greg hard with his other hand instead, and his eyes glittered when he tilted his head back into the grip of Greg’s fingers.

“Go on,” he said. 

Greg came hard and fast. It was an effort to keep his eyes open, to watch Mycroft’s cheeks and chin and lips - thin, not like a woman’s at all - catch the stripes and drips of Greg’s come. A little bit of it landed on his throat. On his _Adam’s apple._

“Shit,” Greg hissed, sliding down the wall, resting on his heels. “Oh my god.”

Mycroft regarded him steadily even as Greg’s hands hovered over his come-streaked face. 

“You’re.” Greg swallowed, swiped a thumb through the mess on Mycroft’s cheek. “So.” 

“Kiss me.”

Greg obeyed. Greg was happy to obey. He caught his own come on his tongue, cleaned it off Mycroft’s swollen mouth, and then Mycroft took it off him when Greg's tongue curled with his, sighing contentedly into the kiss. 

“How do you feel?” Mycroft asked when they stopped, one hand pressed to Greg’s heaving chest. “Are you alright?”

“I think I might be gay,” Greg blurted, eyes fixed to the shine of his own come on another man’s chin. 

Mycroft’s lips twitched. “That’s good,” he said. 

“Is it?”

“Well, it works out fairly well for me,” he teased. “Will you come to bed with me?”

Greg swallowed and licked his lips and nodded. “Yeah. Yes.”

“Good,” Mycroft murmured, and the next kiss he pressed to Greg’s mouth was almost sweet. He stood, and held out his hand. 

Greg took it. 

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno, something about playing with possible first meetings for them just does it for me. I'd say this probably takes place in the later 90s/early 00s. They're in their 30s. Poor Greg. Compulsory heterosexuality is the W O R S T. He'll be okay from here on out, though :D
> 
> And, in honor of the time period I had in mind for this one, the title comes from Deee-Lite's "Groove Is In The Heart"


End file.
